


Inside Information

by whatsacleverusername



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Angst, Anxiety Disorder, Arkham Asylum, Attempted Cannibalism, Attempted Murder, Beating, Blood, Bribery, Canon-Typical Violence, Car Chases, Compulsion, Cuddling & Snuggling, Denial, Escape Plans, Forced Frenemies, Gun Violence, Heavy Angst, Hugs, Human Experimentation, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Inside jokes, Kinda, Kleptomania, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mild Gore, Minor Character Death, Near Death Experiences, Nothing graphic don't worry, Organized Crime, Panic Attacks, Past Suicide Attempt, Physical Abuse, Propositions, Protectiveness, Psychological Trauma, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Rescue, Reunions, Riots, Sexual Harassment, Solitary Confinement, Strangulation, That's a tag now, The Iceberg Lounge, Therapy, inappropriate use of the word psycho, mentions of cannibalism, planning revenge, several really, switch in POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:14:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24542911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatsacleverusername/pseuds/whatsacleverusername
Summary: What better way to get your answers than to find them out for yourself? Regardless if you were actuallylookingfor the answers.
Relationships: Bookworm & Edward Nygma, Bookworm & Harleen Quinzel, Bookworm & Oswald Cobblepot, Bookworm & Paul Lombardi (OC), Bookworm & Selina Kyle, Jonathan Crane & Edward Nygma, Jonathan Crane & Harleen Quinzel, Jonathan Crane & Pamela Isley, Jonathan Crane & Selina Kyle, Jonathan Crane/Bookworm
Comments: 6
Kudos: 17





	Inside Information

Checking his watch, Edwin looks up at the abandoned warehouse sitting outside the window as the town car rolls to a stop, frowning slightly to himself. He’s late. Hopefully Roman won’t be _too_ cross, especially when Edwin has new information on the Ramirez family as a bonus, free of charge. Granted he was going to hand the information over whether he was late or not. It’s best to play it safe with a customer as touchy as Black Mask and sweeten any and all deals where you can, which Jonathan made sure to remind him of before he left three days ago to attend business in Hub City. Edwin can only hope he, for once, has the sense to listen to his own advice. He’s only supposed to be gone a week, but that doesn’t keep Edwin from worrying. When have time constraints ever dissuading him before?

Looking to the people sitting with him, awaiting his directions, Edwin nods and takes the briefcase from the man opposite him, all six of them getting out of the car and heading towards the warehouse, Edwin safely surrounded by his hired help. As they enter the building, the man and woman in front of Edwin exchange a glance and draw their firearms, not helping their employer’s nerves in the least. After a few minutes of waiting- a seemingly short amount of time, but suspicious for a meeting amongst criminals such as Bookworm and Black Mask- the sense of unease spreads to the other hired guards as well.

The feeling quickly blossoms into horror as a shot suddenly tears through the empty building, the man to Edwin’s right falling to the ground with a heavy thud. In a whirlwind of movement lasting only seconds, the two in front of Edwin raise their guns, more shots ring out, the two in front are shot down, someone in the rafters yells something, the woman behind Edwin is shot down, then the man to her right, Edwin is pulled backwards and pushed to the ground, a burning pain shoots through his lower leg, someone falls on top of him, something warm and wet sprays across his face, and the last man standing falls on top of Edwin as well. His body goes numb as he lies there, frozen and unable to move even if he wanted to, squeezing his eyes shut and holding his breath when he hears some _things_ hit the ground only a few yards away. He listens as footsteps pass by him and men whisper to each other, equally fixated on their words and too terrified to process anything they’re saying.

What feels like forever and a second later, the two dead men laying across Edwin are moved, the inventor’s eyes immediately squeezing shut tighter as his arms snap up to cover his face. He wants to scream as he’s lifted up, but he can’t seem to make a sound. Not until a wheeze escapes him when he’s gently placed down again, a hand grabbing his leg. He uncovers his eyes in time to watch a blurry figure blocking out the light over him, freezing up again as his eyes take far too long to adjust. Once they do, he recognizes the white eyes and dark frown in a black cowl, too dazed to react more than letting a few incoherent syllables slip from his mouth. He doesn’t even notice the now throbbing ache in his leg until Batman deposits the freshly removed bullet in a small evidence bag, storing it in his utility belt and effortlessly lifting Edwin with one arm. It takes him far too long to realize what’s happening, only just putting the pieces together as he’s fastened into the backseat of the Batmobile with surprising gentleness, evidently not deemed enough of a threat to be rough with. Sluggishly reaching into his partially ruined suit, Edwin retrieves a small signal device and sets it to distress, quickly typing out a clumsily written message and stowing it back in his suit, hoping to god Batman wasn’t watching him.

Gritting his teeth as pain shoots through his recently wounded leg with each step it’s forced to make, the orange jumpsuit he was forced into rustling and cheap slip on shoes squeaking, Edwin tries to keep his noises of pain to a minimum as he’s led through the low threat cell block, gripping the small blanket and pillow he was given, not wanting to give the guard any reason to further reprimand him. He’s already on edge from the graphic scene he was forced to witness only a few hours ago, the Arkham security’s rough procedure of “patient” intake further agitating both his injury and anxiety. He doesn’t have the option to do his breathing exercise, panting laboriously as he limps along with the guard, not fully paying attention to what he’s saying. He focuses instead on the intricacies of the room they’re walking through, counting the exposed wires fastened to the ceiling, memorizing the bricks in each overhead archway, trying to find the order in which the inmates are sorted into their cells. The effort is ruined when he begins recognizing names, it only then occurring to him that he’ll likely be forced to bunk with one or more of the other inmates. His terror rises as they pass names he could stand sharing a cell with; Julian Day, who he’s friendly with from their days in college- Drury Walker, who’s at least friendly and engaging to talk to- Even _Mitchell Mayo_ would be livable as a bunkmate. He feels the urge to hide behind the guard as he makes eye contact with the latter through the bars as they continue on, hesitantly returning the wave with a stiff arm and unenthusiastic, forced smile.

They at last come to a stop outside a cell with only one name on the patient list, which Edwin is thankful for. A man named Jensen Hawthorne, who the guard tells him is catatonic as he roughly shoves him inside. Clutching his bed things tighter now, Edwin watches the man sitting idly in the corner, waiting for him to turn and address this newcomer before his overwhelmed brain finally recalls the definition of catatonia. That doesn’t ease his nerves in the slightest, however, somehow feeling more threatened by being fully ignored than shouted at or intimidated in some way. He forces himself to move slowly as he puts his pillow and blanket on the empty top bunk, hesitant to trust the rusted metal ladder. Or the bunk bed’s frame in general. He does his best not to think about the way it shudders as he climbs up, unsure if it’s that unstable, he’s trembling that much, or both.  
“Lights out at eight, get up at six,” the guard says, making Edwin jump, having thought he already left.

He swallows thickly and nods, climbing back down and sitting on the floor, _away_ from the other man. Looking around the small cell, trying to calm himself again, he studies the interior, taking note of the three cracks in the ceiling, the green and black grime on the sink faucet, what looks like a small burn pile next to the toilet, the seat of which is off color- Grimacing, Edwin turns his mind away from his surroundings, instead hoping his distress signal had reached someone before security smashed the beacon to pieces.

The cafeteria is less crowded than Edwin expected it to be as he’s led in the next day, quickly glancing around and doing his best to avoid eye contact with anyone he recognizes. Which, unfortunately, is more than just a few individuals. His attempt is foiled when Harleen spots him and excitedly waves to him, loudly calling his name and gesturing for him to come over to her table with Pamela. He hesitantly returns the wave, glancing at the sea of heads that had turned to stare at him, feeling the color drain from his face as he shrinks in on himself. He can hear whispers from the nearby tables, comments on his short height, small size, and body shape, his skin crawling as roving eyes look him over, uncertain of their intentions. Quickly hanging his head and hunching his shoulders to hide, still able to hear the spoken, increasingly inappropriate observations as they shift further down his body, he hurries through the lunch line as fast as possible and simply agrees to the first offered option and whatever’s supposed to go on it. Watching the man behind the counter schlop a visibly oozing pile of meat and paste of some kind onto his tray, Edwin can’t be sure he would know what it is even if he had been listening to the menu. With a suppressed shudder, he steps away from the line and tries to head towards Harleen and Pamela, both feeling obligated and hoping they’ll be able to keep the rest of the entire room from staring at him, dissuading at least some of the raunchy comments. But much to his confusion, he’s stopped en route by a vaguely familiar, taller than him woman with a long scar curving down the right side of her face and over her jaw. He attempts to back away and go around her, stuttering out an apology, but she blocks him again with her arm.

“Heard the Bat dragged you in, but I wanted to see for myself,” she sneers, leaning her head down to glare at him. “You remember me, don’t you, Wormy?”

 _Of course. Just his luck._ “E-Er- Y-Yes…?” he answers quietly.

“Y’know, I don’t believe you,” she says. “What’s my name?”

“Y-You- I d-didn’t have the pleasure o-of knowing,” he says, truthfully. “I- I assure you, I _would_ remember if-”

Suddenly yanking him away, causing the “food” on his try to splat against the floor, a man shorter than the woman but wider than both of them says, “back off, bitch. I got unfinished business with this lil’ shit.”

“Well so do I, asshole,” she snaps, yanking Edwin back.

“Get in fuckin’ line,” he growls, yanking as well.

“Both of you wait your turns,” a second, thinner man says. “He sold me out!”

“Me too!” the woman shouts back.

“He sold me the wrong damn info,” the larger man says.

“He gave me the wrong address, which landed me in here!” A third man shouts, running over with a suspicious, glinting object in hand.

“He got me fired!” a second woman chimes in, a purple question mark tattoo on her cheek.

Feeling his chest tighten, Edwin tries to pull himself out of the two inmates’ grasps, beginning to flail and shout for help when they start to pull him towards themselves, pain tearing through his arms and something popping. He tries to kick at them, attempting to lift himself up by their grips on him, but one of the other men’s fist collides with the back of his head.

“Hold him down!” someone shouts, and Edwin is quickly forced to the floor on his back, two hands holding his legs down.

The man with the unidentified object- a makeshift knife, Edwin now realizes- hurriedly moves in to occupy the space above him, pressing a knee into his chest and holding the weapon directly over one of Edwin’s eyes. He quickly squeezes them shut and jerks his head away as his glasses are torn off, holding his breath and bracing himself for the piercing sting. Only for the weight on his chest to disappear completely and the hands holding him down to let go, a single, large pair pulling him up to stand. He opens his eyes again to watch three inmates scare off the horde that was just upon him, turning his head to face the man leading him away.

“ _Ach lieber Gott, ich wäre fast-_ ” Edwin sputters out when they finally stop. “Thank- Thank you.”

“No problem, buddy,” the man says, looking past him and nodding to someone. “Just give us tribute here and you’ll be on your way.”

“T- ‘Tribute?’” Edwin asks in confusion.

“Like insurance,” a louder voice says, Edwin looking over his shoulder to see another man approach.

“I- I don’t-” Turning around to face the second man, Edwin says, “security took everything I-I had, I don’t-”

Suddenly wrapping an arm around Edwin’s neck, crushing his trachea, the first man says, “cough it up, little man.”

“We know you’re hiding something out there,” the second says, getting closer. “Where’s the X, buddy? Where’s the mark?”

“I-I don’t know what-” Edwin tries to choke out, but he’s cut off by a fist to the chest, making him wheeze in pain.

“We know you’ve got something,” the second man says, punching Edwin again. “Sooner you tell us, the sooner you can go. _C’mon_!”

Black spots beginning to dance in his vision, Edwin tries to say he genuinely has no clue what they’re talking about, that he’s utterly confused and vaguely worried they may be delirious, but only another wheeze escapes. He doesn’t even have the strength to struggle any further as the man’s fist collides with his body again, this time in his stomach and making him heave, which only further decreases his available air. Tears of pain and terror begin stinging his eyes as he’s punched again in the stomach, then in the chest, the blood roaring in his ears drowning out whatever the two are saying. He can feel drool dripping from the corner of his mouth, the way his head is positioned as his body fights for oxygen causing it to escape, mix with the blood from his lip, and drip onto the arm choking him.

Just as his vision begins to dim, the arm suddenly drops him and he collapses to the tile floor, choking and gasping for air as he simply lays in a heap where he fell. A part of him vaguely registers two sets of feet running away as more approach, but it isn’t until two rough hands under his arms lift him up and start dragging him away does he pay any attention to his senses. Wildly looking around, he can make out the slightly blurry shapes of Harleen and Pamela fighting with a few guards as well, Pamela managing to pull Harleen away just before Edwin is taken through the exit. The two guards drag him to his cell, unceremoniously tossing him back in and locking the door as if nothing had happened. He glances over to the corner to see his cellmate still sitting there, completely expressionless and not so much as _batting an eye_ at Edwin’s completely disheveled state.

His panic reaching its peak, Edwin hardly registers the pain as he scrambles to climb the rickety ladder and huddle against the wall, for once not complaining about the way the bunk sways. He pulls his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them, ducking his head and hyperventilating as his tears only increase. His mind is too busy and too loud to remember his breathing exercises, his counting, his sensory anchors- He can’t register anything but the tight ache in his chest and the feeling of a heavy weight pressing down on him, completely unaware of how long it has been when he finally tires himself out. His final thought before passing out is worrying if he’d gotten Harleen and Pamela in trouble.

Shifting uncomfortably in the chair- surprisingly stiff, even for crude plastic- Edwin clasps his hands together, trying to avoid wringing them as he does so when nervous. Being in an Arkham psychiatry office has him hesitant to display any anxiety, contrary to the _supposed_ purpose of the facility. The stories he’s heard, memorized in perfect detail word for word, from various trustworthy people don’t help at all. Steepling his thumbs, he glances around the cold, dull office, trying to make out the name on the vaguely legitimate looking diploma from across the room. His glasses were shattered beyond saving when the staff finally got around to retrieving them from the cafeteria two days ago- a full day _after_ they were ripped off Edwin’s face while almost being murdered. He squirms slightly at the memory, absently worrying the split in his bottom lip with his tongue. The curiosity of what the two men wanted has been eating at him, the compulsion to search for the answer only strengthening as he tries to ignore it. He knows full well there might not be a logical answer, but that reasoning doesn’t satiate his _need_ to know. It’s been getting worse since he was dropped in here, with no one and nothing around to keep him fully grounded, his mind running through questions and wonders without pause, the urge to investigate beginning to rival the now permanent sense of dread following him like a dark cloud. Other compulsions are resurfacing with a vengeance as well, Edwin absently rubbing the bruise on the back of his hand he got for trying to take a pen left on a table.

Evidently having spaced out for a moment, Edwin jumps when the door opens, jerking his head around to see a short, dark haired man with a stack of papers step into the office, the door closing and locking automatically behind him. He reflexively corrects his posture to sit upright, uncrossing his legs and resting his hands in his lap as the other man takes his seat behind the desk. Rather than address Edwin at all, he shuffles through the filing cabinet to his left, obscured by the wooden structure, pulling out an empty folder and beginning to sort the papers into it.

Clearing his throat, Edwin timidly asks, “hello, are… Are you my therapist?”

Still not acknowledging him, save for holding up a hand for him to stop, the other man sets aside some of the papers he hasn’t yet filed and retrieves a notepad from a drawer in the desk. He begins to write something down, pauses, and frowns.

Finally looking up at Edwin, he asks, “isn’t today Tuesday?”

“I… I’m afraid I’m not sure,” Edwin admits.

Frowning, the man taps the desk as he thinks before finishing whatever he was writing. “Edwin, right?” he asks.

“Yes, sir,” Edwin nods. “Edwin Langdon Cas-”

“I didn’t ask for the mile long thing, son,” the man interrupts, writing down what seems like more than just Edwin’s name. Moving the notepad to the side and pulling the first paper over, he continues, “we’ll be starting you off with a few tests for your file. Going through diagnoses, simple yes-no questions.”

“Yes, sir,” Edwin repeats. “Though, you haven’t-”

Rolling his eyes and writing something one handed in the notepad, the man uses his other hand to turn a small plaque around. _Dr. Wade F. Jacobs_ is engraved in the light wood, the only somewhat bright thing in the entire room besides Edwin himself, his pale skin, strawberry blond hair, and orange jumpsuit- even though it’s fairly faded- all seeming superimposed in his surroundings.

Trying to stay pleasant, Edwin says, “it’s- It’s nice to make your acqua-”

“Your mood changes like a lightswitch,” Jacobs interrupts, lifting up the paper to read from.

“No- Not often,” Edwin answers, taking a second to understand that it’s a test question and not an accusation.

“You tend to focus on the worst outcomes,” Jacobs says.

“N- Well, sometimes yes, but-” Edwin tries.

“You feel frightened or worried most of the time,” Jacobs continues.

“Yes, but I have a list of prior diagnoses,” Edwin answers quickly.

Lowering the paper to glare at Edwin, making him sink in his seat, Jacobs maintains eye contact for an uncomfortably long moment before raising the paper again, snidely muttering, “self diagnosing only hurts you in the long run.”

“I- I was proffe-” Edwin tries to argue.

“ _Self diagnosing only hurts you in the long run_ ,” Jacobs repeats pointedly, writing something on the notepad.

“Y-Yes, sir,” Edwin concedes, immediately deflating.

Giving him another scrutinizing look, Jacobs says, “don’t think we have to go through all of this one. You’ve definitely got some kind of anxiety, son.”

“Gener- Yes, sir,” Edwin repeats again, stopping himself.

“Right,” Jacobs says, writing in the notepad. Flipping the paper over and skimming down slightly, he asks, “do you ever have panic attacks?”

“Yes,” Edwin affirms.

“Are you ever concerned about the implications of these attacks?” Jacobs asks.

“N- Y- Yes,” Edwin nods, squeezing his hands.

Jotting something else down, Jacobs simply states, “panic disorder.”

Edwin nods in agreement, forcing himself to not list things off. Even if most are pretty damn self diagnosable.

Putting the first paper down and picking up another, Jacobs asks, “ever feel hopeless?”

“Yes,” Edwin says.

“Worthless?” Jacobs lists.

“Y- Yes,” Edwin says.

“Unmotivated?” Jacobs asks.

“At times,” Edwin affirms.

“Lonely?” Jacobs asks.

“Not- Not as much anymore,” Edwin says.

Raising an eyebrow but not looking away from the paper, Jacobs continues, “suicidal?”

“N- Not recently…” Edwin answers hesitantly.

“‘Not recently?’” Jacobs asks, only then looking up again. “Did you ever try anything?”

“Y- I… Yes,” Edwin admits, his hands beginning to wring themselves of their own accord.

“Goddammit,” Jacobs mutters with no hint of sympathy. “Am I gonna have to have you put on watch?”

“N-No,” Edwin says, a little too quickly. Correcting himself, he says, “I only tried it once, and that was exactly twenty-one yea- A-About two decades ago, sir.”

“ _Good_ , keep that up,” Jacobs says, any hint of interest lost as he jots something down. “Alright… Depression. Yep. Moving on. Intrusive thoughts?”

“At times,” Edwin says quietly.

“Flashbacks or recurring dreams?” Jacobs asks.

“At times,” Edwin repeats, earning him yet another look.

“Traumatic experiences, childhood or adult?” Jacobs asks.

Grimacing, Edwin nods stiffly, mumbling, “yes, sir.”

“Any odd behavioral- No, that’s for me,” Jacobs says, writing something down and covering a yawn. “All of you freaks have that anyhow… Okay, _compulsive_ behavior?”

Edwin nods.

“Impulsive actions?” Jacobs asks.

His expression tightening into a forcefully neutral one, Edwin nods again.

Pausing to glance up at Edwin, Jacobs rifles through the pages and pulls out another, asking, “fascination with specific objects?”

Looking at the ground, Edwin hurriedly shakes his head, mumbling an inaudible answer.

“Impulses to steal?” Jacobs asks.

Edwin shakes his head again, much more insistent this time.

“Do you just suddenly decide to steal things sometimes?” Jacobs asks, suddenly more invested.

“No!” Edwin says, far louder than he meant to. “I don’t- It’s not that- I s-simply- I know what you’re trying to do, but I’m not a kleptomaniac!”

“You’re denying it an awful lot,” Jacobs says, leaning back in his chair and watching Edwin, something like a smirk hidden in his beard. “What, are you afraid of getting caught? You’ve already been arrested, son. Not much else they can do to you now. Thievery’s the least of your charges.”

“I’m not a thief!” Edwin says.

“Didn’t say you were,” Jacobs points out, writing something down. “ _You_ have, obviously. Or did someone else? Steal mommy’s wallet and get caught, didja?”

“No,” Edwin denies. “I didn’t- I’m not greedy, I don’t- I don’t care about money, I just all of a sudden need t-” He suddenly clams up, covering his mouth with a hand.

“Uh huh,” Jacobs says, nodding. Picking up the page again, he reads, “‘kleptomaniacs don’t often steal for personal gain or out of necessity, but on impulse. The objects can range from random to a specific focus-’ You’re crazy about books, right? That’s what they call you, isn’t it? Bookw-”

“I’m not crazy,” Edwin blurts out.

“Symptoms say otherwise,” Jacobs points out.

“I’m not crazy,” Edwin repeats. “I- I st-steal, I’ve stolen, but I’m not- I am _not_ crazy.”

“Are you sure?” Jacobs asks. “Sure you’re not in denial? Or are you worried about _going_ crazy, cooped up in here?”

“I’m- I-I’m not crazy, I just-” Edwin stammers, his voice rising shrilly. “I just- I’m- I-I-”

“Or is it some kind of phobia?” Jacobs asks, then scoffs. “Have to be careful using that word around here, unless you wanna end up like that Crane psycho.”

Covering his mouth again, Edwin squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. Does Jonathan know? Has he always known? Does he think Edwin’s crazy? He has to know he’s not crazy. Because _he’s not_. Jonathan knows that. Does he- Jonathan trusts him, right? He loves him. He’s not lying. Unless- Oh, of course he knows, he has to. He’s too brilliant not to know. Oswald likely knows, too. Harleen, Pamela, Edward, Selina- None of them trust him. He can’t be trusted… Did- Did he lie to them? He lied to them. Oh god, he lied- He’s sorry, he didn’t mean to- He’s been lying, he can’t lie, he’s not supposed to, it’s bad, horrible, evil- They all think he’s crazy, lying, untrustworthy, terrible- Muffling a cry, Edwin covers his face and struggles to breathe, his distress and subsequent panic rising in him to fill his throat and suffocate him. He leans forward in his seat, shaking his head when Jacobs tries to keep asking him things.

Sighing with obvious disgust, Jacobs walks over to the door, pressing the button on the pager and saying, “someone come get the klepto and escort him back to his cell. He’s not cooperating.”

Within minutes, two guards enter the room, picking Edwin up with the same lack of care, once again dragging him before giving him the chance to walk on his own. Not that he would at the moment. He mumbles only slightly coherent apologies to the guards when one swears under his breath, hoisting Edwin over his shoulder and carrying him back to his cell that way instead.

Suddenly being shaken awake, Edwin groans and rubs his eyes. He can’t tell exactly when, but it feels early in the morning, too early to be woken up. He knows he’s been asleep since late yesterday afternoon, but he’s still _exhausted_. He has been, more and more, for the past six days, the harassment from guards and inmates alike not helping at all. Whoever is trying to wake him doesn’t seem to care, however, and pulls him off his bunk- he’d fortunately moved his things to the bottom bunk after “consulting” his cellmate, but it still hurts to collide with the cold, hard concrete floor.

“You have a visitor, worm boy,” an annoyed, gruff voice says, Edwin looking up to see a bearded guard towering over him.

Scrambling to stand up, not wanting to be yanked up and around like a piece of luggage on a cheap flight today, Edwin is reluctant to leave his cell, quickly jumping to the worst possible people coming to see him. Roman could’ve found out Edwin isn’t dead and sent someone to finish him off, more than likely Zsasz- No, he wouldn’t send Zsasz _into Arkham_. Unless- He could’ve paid off the guards, or put Zsasz in a disguise, or- Maybe it’s not even on Roman’s behalf, maybe Zsasz has just finally decided to kill Edwin. That’s- That’s what this is. Zsasz had Roman’s gunmen kill everyone but Edwin so he’d be sent to Arkham and be a sitting duck, waiting for him. He can blame the murder on someone else, _anyone_ else given the selection found within the institution. Edwin’s going to die. He’s almost died before, almost but he always got out. Not this time. He’s definitely going to die. He’s going to die a lying, thieving, worthless, crazy-

Edwin nearly breaks down crying again when he recognizes the man sitting on the other side of the plexiglass. Paul Lombardi. Edwin’s press man, co-organizer, and co-investigator, a transfer from Oswald’s employ. Smiling apologetically, chewing gum, giving a little two-fingered wave, holding the phone connected to the one on Edwin’s side, _not covered in tally mark scars_. The guard steps through the door in the divider and locks it behind him, leaning against the wall behind Lombardi as Edwin all but dives into the seat.

Cutting Lombardi off before he can speak, Edwin doesn’t bother to hide the break in his voice as he says, “thank god it’s you. I- I thought- Roman would’ve, or- O-Or- Oh, god-”

“Easy, boss, easy,” Lombardi says. “Not to be harsh, but you aren’t lookin’ too good. They haven’t roughed ya up too much, have they? No one’s tried anythin’ on ya?”

It’s true, Edwin has looked better. He hasn’t bothered with his hair in three days, his usually bright eyes are bloodshot and dim, he’s almost constantly trembling now- he has to grasp his hands together to keep them from shaking, Jacobs threatening to send him to the infirmary if he didn’t stop yesterday, saying it would be to make sure he isn’t ill. Though Edwin doubts there was any real worry. This precaution, of course has led to him wringing his hands whenever they’re not both in use, even now rubbing his wrist as he holds the phone up to his ear. Despite all of this, Edwin nods, suddenly unwilling to speak.

“Good,” Lombardi says with a nod, obviously not believing him. “Sorry ‘bout the delayed visit; they don’t allow ‘em until the 10th day after incarceration, apparently. Wouldn’t even accept a bribe to lessen it by a _day_ , can ya believe it?”

Edwin grimaces at that, glancing at the guard standing by Lombardi, but maintains his silence.

“But regardless, how ‘bout some good news?” Lombardi asks, drawing Edwin’s attention back to him. “I can say with full confidence none of this will affect the front business. No one ya don’t wanna know will know about your stay, and all mentions of it will be kept on the down-low if they’re kept at all. I’ve already searched the _Gazette's_ , _Tribune’s_ , _Observer’s_ , and _Time’s_ media files and purged anything about Bookworm and Arkham, replacin’ their news spreads with rerun articles and police reports, with a few new exposé reports mocked up by your favorite ink finger, sure to get them lookin’ for ya in all the wrong places. No one listens to the _Globe_ , but I’m crackin' that one next just to be safe, after makin’ sure the GCPD doesn’t have anythin’ new on your file. I’ll bork the Arkham file once we get ya out, haven’t forgot that one. As far as any of our regulars know, you’re out on another trip to Barcelona. Again, no one’ll know except who you, me, and the crew tell, and we won’t tell no one unless ya tell us too, ‘kay?”

Rather than answer, Edwin cups his hand around the receiver and whispers, “has anyone heard from Jon…?”

His pleased expression falling, Lombardi admits, “ah… No. But- But we’ll have ya out soon enough, boss.” Looking over his shoulder, he locks eyes with the guard and nods, adding, “I did manage to bribe one _on_ that 10 day mark.”

The guard moving slightly and blocking the window, Lombardi retrieves something from his suit jacket, pushing the button on what Edwin recognizes as a signal jammer. The red light on the security camera going out, Lombardi looks up at it then pulls something else out of his jacket, tossing it to the guard before Edwin can make out what it is, then turns back to the inventor.

“That’s a burner phone, alright?” he says, indicating what he tossed to the guard. “You’ll get it once I leave. There’s already a message sent to it. Reply when you’re not at risk of gettin’ caught, and we can start plannin’ to spring ya. It won’t take long, I promise.” Smiling again, much more mischievous and oddly comforting, he adds, “we’ll be waitin’ for ya.”

Winking at Edwin, earning him a tired smile, Lombardi quickly puts the jammer back in his jacket, pressing the button again as the guard moves back behind him. Waiting a moment for the camera to turn back on, Lombardi sets down the connected phone and waves goodbye, getting up and listening to the guard’s directions out.

Narrowly missing Lombardi, blocking him from leaving, another guard stands in the doorway and states, “the camera cut out. You search the inmate, I’ll escort the visitor.”

Grunting an acknowledgement, the first guard returns to Edwin’s side of the divider while Lombardi lets the other guide him away with a hand on his shoulder, not looking back at Edwin. He knows it’s to avoid suspicion, but Edwin wishes he would have looked back, if even for just a second. Pushing his back against the wall, conveniently away from the camera, the first guard makes a halfhearted effort to pat him down, slipping the flip phone into Edwin’s tank top under the jumpsuit.

Rather than let him go immediately, the guard roughly whispers in his ear, “bribes only you carry so far in here. Not all of us have kids to feed or fucks to give.”

Shuddering but nodding in understanding, Edwin puts up no fight when the guard turns him towards the exit, beginning the walk back without having to be told to. He doesn’t realize it, but he walks a little faster than necessary.

At any other point in time, Edwin would prefer to spend his down time reading, tinkering, or even watching a more engaging and stimulating movie, _anything but a soap opera_. Now, however, stuck in the Arkham Rec Room with his anxious thoughts running laps around his mind, expecting the worst possible outcome of every little thing around him, something so utterly shallow and bland is exactly what he needs to focus on to try and still himself at least somewhat. The last two days had been somewhat easier, able to have some contact with the outside world, even if it’s just for a short hour or so each night. He’d already memorized the guard’s schedule in an attempt to distract himself, utilizing that now to plan his escape without risk of being caught, the phone safely tucked into the second pillow under the first- as awful as he feels about taking his cellmate’s pillow, Edwin’s neck was starting to kink up beyond his capacity to cope with, and he wasn’t going to use it, the few times he fell asleep evidently still propped up in that same corner.

Counting the 174th shot of someone on a phone since this marathon started, Edwin glances at the clock on the wall just above the TV. Two hours, nine minutes, and about 20 seconds before he’ll be taken back to his cell. Which means five hours, 12 minutes, and about 50 seconds before lights out. Which means seven hours, 13 minutes, and about 15 seconds before he can contact Lombardi again. Hopefully he’ll be able to continue numbing his anxiously overactive mind until then, without any interference from the other inmates in the Rec Room.

As if hearing his silent hope and rushing over to dash it to pieces, Edwin feels someone tap him on the shoulder and hot breath hit the back of his neck, a man’s raspy voice asking, “hey- Hey, excuse me?”

Suppressing a grimace, Edwin hesitantly turns around, only to freeze up in shock. While he’d never had the misfortune of meeting him in person- until now- he can recognize the man in front of him based on descriptions alone. Bald save for a few stringy hairs, yellowed skin, filthy teeth with several missing, emaciated, bloodshot eyes seemingly too large for their sockets and never appearing to blink- Cornelius Stirk. The cannibal, who has the telepathic ability to appear as anyone he wants and eats his victims’ hearts, preferring to scare them just before killing them under the impression they “taste better.” With some kind of large, metal collar fastened around his neck.  
Before Edwin can wonder how he’s allowed in the Rec Room, or why he’s choosing to appear as himself, he opens his mouth again, hitting the inventor square in the face with breath that smells of decay- _literal decay_ , whether that’s from his diet or lack of oral hygiene isn’t something that piques Edwin’s curiosity. Which is saying something.

“You’re- You’re with Dr. Crane, right?” he asks, fixing Edwin with that manic stare. “Like- Smitten? Taken? An i-item? Bum-mping ug-”

“ _Yes_?” Edwin hastily confirms, his confusion and apprehension outweighed by not wanting to let Stirk finish that phrase.

“Y-You think you could- Uh, give me th-the formula?” Stirk asks.

“What…?” Edwin asks.

“The scare juice!” Stirk says loudly, making Edwin flinch slightly. “The scare juice! He- He sticks people with it, a-and- It’s _sooo_ good, n-never- Tasted anything like it.”

“Oh, uh-” Frowning tightly and glancing around at the other inmates, who don’t seem to care, Edwin hesitantly says, “I-I’m afraid I don’t know…” He isn’t lying. Jonathan won’t even let _him_ know what any of the formulas are.

“C’mon, _please_?” Stirk says, clasping his fingers together, evidently not understanding. “I-I’ll make it worth y-your while. Crane- Dr. Crane won’t e-even know. I’ll do _anything_. Even, uh…” His face going blank for a moment, Stirk thinks before finishing, “…oh! I-I could suck your dick or- Or something?”

Blinking in surprise, momentarily astonished by the blunt offer, Edwin shakes his head and says, “I- I have no interest in being disloyal, thank you.” _Especially not with **you** of all people_, he thinks to himself. Continuing, he points out, “additionally, I believe you may have misunderstood-”

With an enraged snarl like a feral animal, Stirk pounces on Edwin, slamming him to the ground with a loud thud. The other inmates only _now_ looking over to watch the fight, Edwin struggles and tries to shield himself as Stirk bites and claws at his face, screaming obscenities at him. Edwin soon screams as well when Stirk gets a hold of his upper ear, trapping it between sharp teeth and biting hard, attempting to tear at it before Edwin makes him let go with a fist to the nose. Inmates beginning to crowd around the two men on the dirty floor, Edwin tries and fails to defend himself further as he once again panics, Stirk managing to pull his hands out of the way and sink his disgusting teeth into Edwin’s jaw next.

Not even seconds afterwards, guards storm into the room, four pulling Stirk away and securing him in handcuffs, the others spreading out to contain the inmates, one simply picking Edwin up and putting him in a chair, handing him something to press against the blood oozing from the bite mark on his jaw. If Edwin’s mind wasn’t still in fight or flight mode, he’d be curious and a little suspicious of why this particular guard is being so nice, compared to any other.

“How the hell did he get out?” a guard shouts as she restrains a struggling inmate.

“He still has the damn collar on!” another answers, pushing Stirk to the floor and holding him in place. Waiting for his hands to be cuffed behind his back, she adds, “it’s still functioning, too! Little bastard must’ve got out the old fashioned way.”

“Block Six is gonna be in some _deep_ shit tonight for letting him get out,” the guard cuffing Stirk says, a slight hint of sadistic humor in his voice.

“Ought to put him in a muzzle already,” the first guard says, obvious disgust in her voice.

Struggling with the uncomfortably gentle guard for a brief second, Edwin gives up and lets him stand him up and lead him out of the room, the inventor catching Stirk glaring at him as he leaves. The walk back after that point is a blur, up until he finds himself huddled under the thin blanket in his bunk. He reflexively pulls it tighter around his shaking body, pulling his head under and hugging his knees against his chest again. He knows he has to stay awake long enough to at least tell Lombardi he won’t be available tonight, but as he feels the panic induced adrenaline lose its effect on him, Edwin’s seized by exhaustion that only gets more and more powerful. He briefly worries about his new wounds, hoping they won’t get infected, before his ability to think dissolves into nothingness.

_O has been informed of the plan so far. We have a representative of his here corresponding back and keeping him up to date while we do so with you._

Edwin smiles- genuine, comforted, and hopeful for the first time since he was stuck in Arkham- rereading the message just in case he may have misread something. While he still didn’t have his glasses, making it a little more challenging to communicate via reading and typing especially when the old phone required multiple messages for longer statements, they’d gotten much done with the planning over the last nine days. If they keep this rate of progress up, it’s speculated Edwin will be out without making too much of a public scene in three days.

_That’s good to hear. Has O made any comment on the lending?_

_Not yet, but the rep says he should get back to us soon._

_Very good._ Pausing for a moment before sending the message, Edwin adds on to it. _I know I keep asking this, it must be driving you crazy and I apologize, but does anyone have any word from Jon?_

Hesitating again to send the message, Edwin fidgets with his plastic spoon- impulsively swiped from Harvey in the cafeteria yesterday, causing a fight with Drury he still feels somewhat guilty for- before he finally does so, watching the small screen closely as he waits for the reply. He focuses on it, trying to keep his breathing like that if he were asleep on the offhand chance a guard might be passing a nearby line of cells. Not close enough to see him, but enough to hear. He presses a button to brighten the screen again after it goes out from inactivity. He knows he should be trying to conserve battery, but he doesn’t want to miss a message, the phone being on silent to avoid making any sound that could give him away.

The silence is shattered as the door to the cell creaks in protest and heavy boots storm in. Edwin has no time to react before he’s pulled out from the bunk and thrown to the concrete floor, shock loosening his grip on the phone and letting it go skittering away. Just as he looks up, one of the said heavy boots collides with his face with a disgusting crunch, his nose throbbing in pain as his wrist is seized in a bruising grip. He opens his eyes again just in time to watch the guard pick up the phone and glare at him before dragging him across the floor and out of the cell. He’s stuck between struggling in an attempt to get free and being compliant to lessen his punishment, blood leaking from his nose and down his face as he’s dragged along, finally stopping. As he tries to get up, Edwin is kicked again, this time in the ribs. He lurches forward through a door, falling on his face and being picked up by the back of his shirt to be pulled the rest of the way into the brightly lit room.

“How the hell did you get this?” a voice asks.

Blinded by the overhead lights, Edwin can’t see who’s speaking to him, only able to make a pitiful noise in response as he tries getting up again. The voice says something else to him, but he can’t make it out over the sound of himself screaming in pain as he’s kicked yet again. And again. And again.

“Stop.” The kicking stops, and Edwin can feel someone walking over to him. His head is picked up from the floor by his hair, forced to look up as some man in a lighter uniform than the other guards stares down at him in disgust. He’s forced to stay in that position for what feels like forever, his entire body continuing to scream in pain while his voice stays silent.

Finally, the man looks away from Edwin, saying, “solitary. Two days. That should teach him.”

“Yessir,” the guard says, grabbing Edwin’s arm again.

Taking him far too long to process what was being said, Edwin only then begins struggling, making nonsensical pleas to not be put in solitary, that he’s sorry, that he won’t do it again. Of course, they don’t listen, and soon the metal door slams shut in front of him, plunging him in almost total darkness. The only light coming from the slit at the bottom of the door, maybe _just_ wide enough for a tray from the cafeteria to slide through. Enough light for him to crawl onto the bench meant to be a bed, curling his aching body up as much as possible and trying not to make any sound while sobbing in the tiny, cramped, suffocating cell.

Edwin can’t help but groan as light suddenly pours in, the metal hinges of the door squeaking as he covers his eyes. They’re soon smacked away, however, and he’s slapped in the side of the head.

“Don’t growl at me, freak,” a guard says, pulling him to his feet. “You’re done here. Get out.”

Not giving him much of an option, she shoves Edwin forward, into another guard who grabs him by the shoulder and steers him away. His legs tremble as he’s guided along, praying they don’t give out, his stomach turning at the thought of what they might do to him for that. He keeps his head down, his hands forcibly being held behind his back after he started to wring them together. Meaning he falls flat on his face when he’s suddenly pushed through a door, his swollen nose receiving a jolt of pain as he lands.

“Get in your seat, worm boy,” the guard says before walking away, the door closing automatically.

Nodding despite this, Edwin clumsily gets himself to his feet and stumbles to the plastic chair, recognizing the room but too mentally and physically exhausted to make much of a reaction. He continues to look at the floor as he walks and sits down.

“You shouldn’t’ve done that, you know,” Jacobs says. “You wouldn’t’ve had to be put in solitary if you didn’t try to escape. You had the choice not to.”

Edwin nods in passive agreement.

“You could’ve turned that phone in,” Jacobs continues, “tell the guards who gave it to you and avoid whatever you’re going through now.”

Again, Edwin nods.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” Jacobs asks.

Edwin shakes his head.

“ _You ought to_ ,” Jacobs scolds. “Starting with where you got that phone.”

Edwin doesn’t answer. He tries to clasp his hands together in his lap before he remembers they’re still cuffed behind his back.

“Don’t ignore me,” Jacobs orders. “I asked you a question. _Where did y-_ ”

Cutting him off, red lights up the dim office as an alarm blares through the room, making Edwin flinch hard and screw his face up as his already horrific headache is made a thousand times worse. Jacobs swears under his breath, opening the door now locked from the inside, stepping out of the way as three guards pile in. 

“Mass riot,” one says simply, and the three roughly grab Edwin, dragging him out of the office and picking him up when he doesn’t move fast enough for them.

As they go through the halls, Edwin can hear distant shouting and slamming over the alarm, followed by gunshots, making him flinch again and hope they aren’t headed in those directions. The sounds only intensify as they travel, though it’s difficult to tell if they’re getting closer or if there’s more of them. Either way, Edwin continues to feel more and more sick to his stomach, certain he’ll vomit at any moment.

He whimpers and tries to hide his face when they stop after some amount of time he isn’t sure of, ready to be hit or yelled at or otherwise punished for the riot. Instead, he’s set on the floor, two of the guards moving in front of him and one shouting at someone in front of them all. Cautiously opening an eye, he peeks out from between the guards, somehow _more_ petrified to see five people, all clad in nondescript uniforms and masks, each carrying a gun. Not giving anyone present a chance to act further, two of the unknown people take aim and shoot the guards in front of Edwin, another rushing forward and pulling Edwin away. The middle sized of them all quickly picks Edwin up, carrying him with surprising care as the group runs off, while two others fend off guards and inmates alike while the remaining two lead them through the riots, one in front and behind them. After wading through the bodies- some standing, some laying, most screaming and yelling and crying- the two guiding them sprint ahead, opening a door meant to be used by the service staff, ushering the other four out before following.

Edwin tries to struggle free as they sprint away from Arkham, passing through the open gates, the person carrying him tightening their grip on him to keep him from falling. They tear through the city on foot, disappearing into the Narrows and ultimately diving into an abandoned building to hide. As soon as he’s set down, Edwin tries to scramble away, only to be held tightly again.

“It’s okay, Mr. Kingor,” one of them say, a woman’s voice, helping to hold him. “You’re safe, it’s okay.”

Edwin doesn’t listen, trying to kick at her to get free.

“Hey, hey,” the one carrying him says, his familiar voice making Edwin pause. Removing his mask, he continues, “look at me, boss. Look at me. You’re okay. You’re out, no one’s gonna hurt ya no more. You’re safe now, alright?”

Taking a worryingly long moment to recognize the man as Lombardi, Edwin stares at him in confusion, finding himself speechless yet still trying to ask all of his questions at once. Putting a finger over his own lips, silencing the other man despite not saying anything, Lombardi pulls Edwin closer to the wall, glancing over to the person watching the window as a car rolls past. They shake their head, difficult to make out against the dark backdrop of the night. Several more cars roll by before they nod, motioning for the group to follow. Another person assists Lombardi with Edwin, both helping him through the busted open window and towards an almost instantly recognizable black and white limousine.

Stepping out of the vehicle is none other than Oswald Cobblepot, who- for once- makes no objection as Edwin unsteadily runs over to him, stumbling slightly and clinging to him tightly. His shock of the past events quickly dissipating as he’s helped into the limousine, Edwin soon begins to break down completely, hyperventilating through his sobs and gasping out indecipherable words. Ordering one of the people, now all unmasked, to bring him a blanket, Oswald carefully wraps it around Edwin and allows him to lean against him, hiding his face and crying into his shoulder. The limousine takes off once everyone is inside the cab, Oswald switching between trying to comfort Edwin despite not being entirely sure how to, and ordering the people around to bring him things. Once Edwin tires himself out enough to not object to being separated from his friend and uncovering his face, Oswald grimaces at the damage that had been done to him, careful not to touch the inventor’s skin as he moves his hair away from his forehead.

“Get me a washcloth,” Oswald orders.

Hurrying to comply, one of the people wets one in the melted ice of the champagne bucket, handing it to Oswald.

“He smells like hell,” he comments, immediately wishing he hadn’t when Oswald whips around to glare at him.

“You’re no easier on the senses yourself,” he snaps. Turning back to Edwin, he carefully wipes at his forehead, muttering, “I’d hoped he wouldn't be naïve enough to go to the showers… Ought to have you sorry sods to do this instead, assuming I could trust you not to bruise him up more than he already is…”

He’s late. More than two weeks late, to be exact. Grumbling to himself as he drags his tired bones up the stairs, Jonathan quietly opens the door and lets himself inside, frowning and making a note to remind Edwin to lock the door. Again. Setting his things down in the small kitchen, Jonathan grunts as he leans backwards and presses his hands against the base of his spine, his back popping in a few places. As much as he wants to sit down to rest, he knows he ought to make sure Edwin didn’t worry himself too much when he didn’t answer any of his texts. It’s not his fault smartphones are ridiculously fragile. Christ, the drive back wore him out more than the job itself… While he’s glad Edwin listened to him and moved them to a different hideout before both of their meetings, those damn stairs leading up to the old house are horrendously uneven. He’ll have to fix those at some point, he thinks as he always does after climbing them.

Purposefully making noise as he heads towards the bedroom, not wanting to startle Edwin with his typically silent approach, Jonathan is confused to find the room empty. Stepping inside, he knocks on the bathroom door and listens. Nothing. Grimacing, he creeps back out of the room, now as quiet as possible while he listens for any movement in the small house. He retrieves one of his sickles from his bags, pausing before poking his head into the laundry room. Nothing. He carefully walks over and quickly swings the hall bathroom open. Nothing. He hurries over to the glass door leading out to the indoor patio, barging through and looking around the room. _Nothing_. He all but tears the basement door open, flying down the stairs and flipping the light on, prowling through the space and shouting for whoever’s there to show themselves. _Still nothing_.  
Immediately remembering the unlocked door, Jonathan goes through every possible, horrible thing that could’ve happened as he runs back up the stairs, snatching up the landline phone and hurrying to dial the Assemblage, hoping someone answers. _Nothing_. Dropping the phone on the counter, Jonathan retrieves his keys, hooking the sickle into his belt and hurrying back into the car. He wastes no time starting it up and pulling back out of the driveway, the tires screeching as he floors the pedal. He all but flies across Gotham, going to Harleen and Dr. Isley, Selina, even _Edward_ to ask if any of them had seen or heard of Edwin recently, but all of them have little to nothing helpful to say. They only repeat the same thing. He had a meeting with Roman Sionis almost a month ago. Drawing the obvious conclusion, Jonathan gets back into the car, his fear now muted compared to his outrage.

Much to his furious annoyance, he’s cut off at a light en route to Sionis’ tacky Iceberg Lounge knock off, growling and spinning the car around to race down a different street instead. The car chases after him, trying to cut him off again, forcing Jonathan to swerve wildly. The car _continues_ to follow him, ultimately forcing him into a dead end street and blocking the way out. Hitting the steering wheel in frustration, Jonathan picks up his sickle and gets out of the car, storming over to the other vehicle and grabbing the driver by the shirt collar just as he steps out, slamming him back against the hood.

“Wait, wait!” he shouts, holding his arm up over his face.

“ _What_?” Jonathan hisses, angling the sickle so the curved point pokes against the underside of the driver’s jaw, forcing him to lean his head back.

With a shaking hand, he holds up a phone, the screen displaying an ongoing call. Not bothering to read the contact, Jonathan lets go of the driver’s shirt and snatches the phone, keeping his sickle poised should he not like what he hears.

“Crane?” an instantly recognizable voice asks.

“Cobblepot,” Jonathan says sourly. “I _do not_ have time for your sh-”

“Just shut up and listen,” Oswald snaps. “Edwin is as safe as he can be _now_ , at the Lounge. Follow Geoffrey back, and don’t you dare keep him waiting.”

The call ends before Jonathan can snap back, and he huffs in disgust. Letting the driver go, he tosses the phone back at him before getting back in his own car. He purposefully tailgates him the entire way to the Lounge, making sure to glare at him in the other’s rear view mirror whenever he stops for a red light or stop sign.

Finally arriving, Jonathan wastes no time dealing with the valet, tossing his keys over his shoulder as he storms inside. A sharp, icy eyed glare is enough to make the small crowd of heads turn away again and do their best not to catch his eye. He quickly makes his way through the Lounge before anyone can stop him, the doormen merely telling him where to go rather than trying to apprehend him as they usually would. He isn’t stopped until he meets Oswald in the halls behind the public part of the Lounge.

“Crane,” he says, a typical greeting for the scientist.

“Where is he?” Jonathan asks.

“Do you really think I’m going to let you simply barge in without _fully_ understanding what you let him be put through?” Oswald asks.

“ _I_ didn’t-” Jonathan tries to argue.

“He was left in Arkham for _25 days_ ,” Oswald interrupts. “Do you understand me? That’s almost a month, Jonathan. Sionis managed to get him thrown in there after slaughtering everyone but him in their damn ‘meeting’ and leaving him for the Bat. We were able to free him two days ago, yet he’s still reeling from whatever those bastards did to him. _Besides_ beating him black and blue. He hasn’t left his bed since he was put in it, much less the room. He won’t tell anyone what happened in there, the only request he makes- _the only thing he says at all_ is for someone to be with him. Tell me, who do you think that is?”

Thoroughly scolded and beyond concerned by the information, Jonathan quietly says, “the phone was busted the day I arrived…”

“Go take care of him,” Oswald says dismissively, pointing out which door is Edwin’s and stepping aside.

Nodding, Jonathan walks to the door, only to hesitate with his hand on the handle. Jonathan had expected to close this night back with _another_ worried scolding from Edwin, followed by _another_ disappointed scolding when he learns he busted yet _another_ phone, ultimately winding up with _another_ night of Edwin holding onto him as they rest like he always does when Jonathan is gone for too long without saying anything. He takes a deep breath and steels himself before knocking, slowly opening the door when there’s no answer. It takes most of his self control to not rush over to the bed, to yank Edwin up in a tight hug, apologizing to him, even to keep himself from gasping at the stitches and inflamed flesh peeking out from under bandages, his nose set in a splint. He feels his chest tighten when Edwin flinches at the door opening, and his cold heart crack when Edwin looks at him with one eye not swollen shut. He grimaces in pain as he tries to sit up, Jonathan hurrying over to gently place a hand on his chest and stop him, staying silent as his throat seems to close up. He stands there by the bed, looking down at Edwin as he looks back up at him, moving a hand to loosely grasp the one on his chest.

“Missed you,” Edwin says quietly, ever so slightly squeezing his hand.

“I know,” Jonathan says. “I’m sorry. I meant to call, but-”

Edwin shakes his head, and Jonathan stops himself. “Please- Please, just…”

He weakly pulls on Jonathan’s arm, letting go when he lays down next to him. Quickly, as quick as he can, Edwin tucks his head under Jonathan’s chin, curling his fingers into his shirt, clinging to him as if afraid he might disappear again. Gingerly, Jonathan puts his arm around Edwin, not sure exactly how injured he is and not wanting to find out the hard way. He can feel the other body trembling against his, subconsciously trying to hold his own as still as possible so as not to disturb his partner. He soon feels something wet touch his neck, it taking him a second to rationalize it as tears rather than blood as he initially assumed.

His voice wavering, Edwin says, “please… Please don’t leave again. Please.”

“I won’t,” Jonathan promises. “I’m not leaving you again. I’m staying with you. It’s- Alright. I’m staying.”

Nodding, Edwin nuzzles his face closer, beginning to shake more as he cries against Jonathan, his fingers gripping his shirt tighter so as to hold him to that promise. Gently rubbing his back, Jonathan tries to comfort him, quietly whispering to him and moving his other arm to hold Edwin as well, gently stroking his shoulder, promising him that he’ll keep him safe, that no one will hurt him, that no one will take him away, soothing him as he drifts off to sleep, still very much exhausted. Carefully petting Edwin’s head as his breathing calms, interrupted by a few unconscious sniffles, Jonathan swears to himself that Edwin will never have to see the inside of that hellhole again. That’s at least _one_ thing he can cooperate with Cobblepot on. He’ll raise hell the next time someone tries to abduct Edwin, making whoever is foolish enough wish they were never born to begin with.

Looking up as the door opens again, Jonathan watches as Oswald brings in a glass of water and a bowl of soup under a clear plastic dome, fogged up from the steam, setting them down on the bedside table and gesturing to Edwin. Jonathan nods in understanding, suppressing the thought of Edwin not having eaten before it can spiral into worry. He’ll make sure Edwin eats, once he’s ready. He’ll _also_ make sure both Sionis and his pet mercenary, and every single bastard he finds out put their disgusting hands on him in Arkham, regret ever having the notion to harm Edwin in the first place. He knows very well that it's impressive what outrage and fury can do to one's combative prowess, fully intending to demonstrate that as well as the potency of his new formula. Assuming he got the components correct this second go around. He’ll leave Edwin at the Lounge for safety while he deals with those two first. Once he stops clinging to him. Their aptitude as guinea pigs for his newest toxin strain won’t diminish any time soon… Drawing him out of his plans for revenge, Edwin whimpers slightly in his sleep, Jonathan gently shushing him and pressing a kiss to his forehead, whispering reassurances to him and slightly tightening his arm around him. On the brightside, Jonathan will be able to help him recover from his stay at Arkham, with firsthand relatability. He only hopes Edwin didn’t have _all_ the same experiences he did.


End file.
